poem29 Dec 2008 06:46 am

The berries are not red.
They twist in our hands,
struggling to remain on their vines –
the very best in sentient horticulture,
genetically engineered for that astonishing flavor,
dense and luminous
taste after taste blooming on your tongue.

It is the taste of their dreams.

Unconfirmed, I know.
But a legend among us nonetheless.
We, who wake the berries from their dreams,
yank them away from the only home they’ve known.
They have enough intelligence for that, at least –
for the desire to stay.

They twist.
None of us have unscarred palms.
You know a harvester by the network of fine pale lines across hands, arms.
We bandage our hands silently at the end of the day,
unable to look at each other.

The wine is exquisite.
So we are told.
All the dreams of a new species,
Not with a year’s wages could I afford it.
But every night, I bring home one berry.
One small taste of dream for myself.
I place it on my tongue
and close my eyes.


2 Responses to “Unruly Harvest, by Shira Lipkin”

  1. on 09 Jul 2009 at 11:35 am Shira Lipkin

    […] Silk and Wood” in Electric Velocipede #15/16, November 2008 * “Unruly Harvest” in Polu Texni, December 2008 * “The Angel of Fremont Street” in ChiZine, January 2009 * “When […]

  2. on 23 Dec 2010 at 8:09 am Unruly Harvest – Shira Lipkin

    […] earrings and poem are named “Unruly Harvest”. You can read the poem at Polu Texni, a Magazine of Many Arts; it was published in December […]

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